


Zomblock

by Gem_Gem



Category: Sherlock (TV), Warm Bodies (2013)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-31 00:28:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3957598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gem_Gem/pseuds/Gem_Gem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here is a short fanfiction story. I was going for funny horror, I was going to take it somewhere, but Uni tends to get in the way and therefore I could not finish it and I just ended up with this...I like it anyway, whatever it is!</p><p>I was inspired by Warm Bodies. Obviously.</p><p>I posted this on my DA account on October 30th, 2014</p></blockquote>





	Zomblock

The mug shook in his trembling hand and Lestrade winced as the still steaming tea splashed over his fingers. He put it down slowly, unable to take his eyes away from Sherlock and cleared his throat awkwardly, trying to swallow down the need to bolt.

Sherlock was sitting on the settee instead of his usual chair, stock-still and doll like, holding his violin in both hands as if he had been arranged that way. Lestrade took in his frame and then snapped his eyes to the bared skin of his face and hands; it was pale and faintly tinged blue, lips dark with death and eyes circled in purple and red, veins visible up his neck and over his cheekbones in a spidery pattern of infection. 

“He won’t eat you, you know,” John assured him with humour in his tone, his eyes on Lestrade from his place in his chair, posture casual and a book in his hands. 

“Won’t he?” Lestrade shot back, nervous and tetchy. “How can you—John, this isn’t Sherlock, you do know that don’t you?”

John frowned, “Of course it’s Sherlock.”

“No, John, no it’s not,” Lestrade replied and flinched bodily when Sherlock looked at him suddenly. 

John leant forward on his chair and pursed his lips, “Greg-” he started, looking up as Lestrade abruptly stood.

“No, John. Christ! John, th-that thing isn’t Sherlock! What the hell are you still doing housing it? Why didn’t you report it? Why didn’t you tell someone, tell me, so it can be properly dealt with?”

Sherlock still gazed at Lestrade silently, eerie unnatural eyes locked and unwavering. Sherlock hadn’t moved from his place on the settee since Lestrade had arrived, hadn’t so much as twitched in Lestrade’s direction, but now Sherlock was almost fully attentive. The violin that he had clutched gently in his grasp, bloodied strings glistening, shifted as Sherlock turned to face Lestrade properly.

“ “Dealt with?” ” John repeated hollowly, the edges tinted in anger.

“John, you must know how dangerous this is?”

“He isn’t like the others,” John replied, voice now eerily calm as he glanced at Lestrade with angry eyes. “He’s different.”

Lestrade edged his way back towards the door in a few steps, “John, listen to me, that isn’t Sherlock. Sherlock is dead. Bloody hell, how long have you had him here with you? How long until--?”

“Do you want help with the case or not?” John interjected, irritably.

Lestrade blinked at John in confusion, “Wh-what?”

John signalled for Lestrade to sit back down and then sighed loudly when Lestrade remained standing, “The recent kidnapping case, do you want help with it or not? After all, it is why you’re here.”

“No,” Lestrade said after a moment, shaking his head, “No, that’s not why I’m here, I’m here to see you, to keep you company, to make sure you weren’t--”

“Depressed and lonely? Suicidal?” John smiled tightly at him and adjusted the book in his grasp. “Maybe I would have been if Sherlock had actually gone.”

“He is gone, John, that isn’t him!”

John sat back and gestured to Sherlock, “It was his idea to invite you over, you know. He practically begged me to get you here.” John said, watching as Lestrade rolled his eyes and then interrupting before Lestrade could speak again. “He can talk, you know. Nothing as big and long winded as before, but…it’s still speech. He can say small words, little spaced out sentences. Course he grunts and groans most of the time but he did that before too.”

“…What do you mean he can talk?” Lestrade asked, unable to stop the waves of curiosity once they had crashed over him. He sat when John signalled for him to do so a second time, and flitted his eyes between Sherlock and John, still wary and on-edge but too interested in the sudden prospect to give it full rein.

John turned to smile at Sherlock and reached to touch his knee, “Sherlock?”

Sherlock didn’t react and Lestrade had half a mind to stand back up and distance himself, the stare Sherlock hadn’t released him from caused the hair at the back of Lestrade’s neck to stand on end, but just as the silence began to feel uncomfortable, Sherlock parted his lips.

“Lestrade…” Sherlock breathed, voice still incredible deep as it had been before, the tone peppered with what sounded like familiar arrogance. 

With Sherlock’s teeth exposed, Lestrade couldn’t help but sit back and grip at his knees even as he craned forwards in disbelief.

“I…hear…you are…in need of me…once more,” Sherlock said, facial features emotionless and stoic.

Lestrade swore under his breath and laughed without humour, “Christ…”

**Author's Note:**

> Here is a short fanfiction story. I was going for funny horror, I was going to take it somewhere, but Uni tends to get in the way and therefore I could not finish it and I just ended up with this...I like it anyway, whatever it is!
> 
> I was inspired by Warm Bodies. Obviously.
> 
> I posted this on my DA account on October 30th, 2014


End file.
